


The Heartbreak Of A Broken Boy

by ImAHufflepuffAtHeart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 06:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9310295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImAHufflepuffAtHeart/pseuds/ImAHufflepuffAtHeart
Summary: Poor shattered, heartbroken Draco has always loved Harry from afar, and it's tearing him apart that Harry doesn't love him back.  He deeply hates himself and he's convinced everyone else does too.  He doesn't believe anyone, let alone Harry, could ever love him.  Little does he know that he is loved, by his very best friend, and she's on a mission to turn his life around, find him love and save him from himself.  How does she know he's in desperate need of help?  While, if she's the Pansy Parkinson we all know and hate, it's definitely because she  stuck her nose where it absolutely does not belong.  In his secret, hidden, not-at-all-for-her-eyes diary.  And in that diary is the key to either saving  Draco, or ruining his life.  (Slightly Christmas themed near the end.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!! This is kind of my debut fanfiction.... I hope that doesn't at all stop you from reading it. I would really appreciate reviews, but it's totally up to you. I'm really proud of this, so if you do decide to review, please don't insult me too viciously. So, now that that's all said and done, I present to you my totally romance-filled, angsty, sort of fluffy pride and joy; The Heartbreak Of A Broken Boy. I invite you to read it and weep.... I did. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I, as incredibly sad as it is, own none of these characters, places, names, relationships (except for whatever the heck I did with Drarry), situations (except for, you know, the ones I made up that aren't canon... you can tell the difference), and whatnot. As much as it breaks my heart, they do not belong to me. They belong to the glorious and goddess-like J.K. Rowling, my and every other Potterhead's queen. If all this really did belong to me, well, the ending would go something like this...

O how the heartbreak of a broken boy  
Consumes his every thought and feeling  
And eats at him ‘til he’s no more  
And ruins him beyond all hope

If he shields himself  
From the world’s intruding gaze  
And from the comfort of human sympathy  
And denies he is worth loving  
He is doomed to die  
Of self-hate, and heartbreak  
Shattered and hateful  
And all alone

1  
It had all begun in their first year at Hogwarts. Draco’s scarring heartbreak, his every painful heartache had come from that year, but more than that, had been caused by a boy, one perfect, wonderful boy and his ever stinging words:  
“I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks,” Harry Potter had told him harshly, leaving Draco’s extended hand and his cruel words suspended in the air.  
Harry’s words had hurt like he had walked up to Draco, grinning his adorable smile from ear to ear, and punched him in the stomach. He had seen this boy, Harry Potter, a few times prior to this meeting. In fact, it seemed as though Draco were seeing him everywhere. His adorable grin and stunning green eyes seemingly found him wherever he went, in Madam Malkin’s, on the train and even occasionally in his dreams. Having only met him once before this seems impossible, but Draco could distinctly remember Harry’s face weaving in and out of his subconsciousness, swimming in the haziness that exists somewhere between being asleep and being awake. So when his parents casually mentioned one morning over breakfast that summer that Harry Potter, The Great Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived was going to be in his year, Draco was ecstatic.  
But Draco rarely ever let on how he truly felt about anything. He dismissed this news passively, trying his best to look like he couldn’t care less. He never wanted anyone to know how he really felt about anything, for enormous fear of being judged or made fun of. So Draco put up walls, these massive, shielding, skyscrapingly gigantic walls. And to protect these walls and what lay behind them, he was mean. Cruel, sarcastic and rude any and every time anyone ever came close to knowing the truth about him, or anytime he almost wanted to say it himself. He made sure he was the one judging, and not letting others make fun of him. He knew that somehow, for some reason, hurling insults at those less fortunate than he gained him admirers. These followers, just as senselessly nasty as he pretended to be, made him their leader, and he loved the power being their leader granted him, even though he knew it wasn’t who he really was.  
So when Harry Potter, this interesting, famous and adorable boy who Draco yearned so strongly to befriend rejected his friendship, after the introduction Draco had spent weeks rehearsing, it brought Draco near tears. And this pushed his walls up only further. If Harry wasn’t going to be his friend, then Draco would have to make him his enemy, make him hurt more than ever, as revenge, and to cover up how he really felt.

 

2  
The Great Hall at Hogwarts was decorated fabulously, the enchanted ceiling’s silver stars glittering high above them, and the glimmer of the golden dishes and goblets shining a brilliant gold, although Draco hardly noticed. He was busy staring at Harry, almost in a trance, his eyes jumping away from him whenever he thought someone had seen. He was absolutely immersed in Harry’s every feature. There simply wasn’t a thing about his appearance he didn’t like. He was practically put under a spell by his sparkling green eyes, his ridiculous, messy hair, and his cute little grin, the smile holding the purest happiness and the sweetest kindness Draco had ever seen. Draco especially liked his scar. He felt a sharp pang when he remembered what it symbolized; the death of both Harry’s parents. He was surprised to discover he felt strangely sympathetic, and had to suppress his odd urge to comfort poor Harry for it.  
When Draco’s turn came to be sorted into his house, he walked up and sat down on the stool at the front of the Great Hall with total ease. As soon as the Sorting Hat had barely touched his head it yelled a booming “SLYTHERIN!” that resounded across the hall, not a single trace of hesitation that wavered in its yell. Draco rose from the stool, walked over to and sat down at his house table without missing a beat. It wasn’t that Draco was unhappy with the house he had been given; no, he was quite pleased, it was just that he had expected it. His whole family had been in Slytherin. Draco knew it was where he belonged.  
But when Draco happily sat down at his table among his fellow Slytherins, he knew his smile was a lie. Because all he could think about as he silently, yet fervently stressed was which house Harry was would be sorted into. Was Draco about to lose him to another house, the one person he had thought he had a real chance at friendship with? Although Harry had already declined his friendship, Draco remained optimistic, but now…  
As Harry walked up to the front of the Great Hall, Draco prayed Harry would be sorted into Slytherin. He absolutely, with every fibre of his being, needed Harry Potter to be sorted into Slytherin. The entire time he thought this he did his best to act as if he felt otherwise. But as quiet as can be, only to himself, he whispered pleadingly to any cosmic force that could be listening:  
“Slytherin, Slytherin, please, won’t he be sorted into Slytherin…”  
Unfortunately for Draco, up at the front, facing hundreds of students, Harry Potter was hoping for the exact opposite. With all his heart he wanted to be in any house but Slytherin. Not only had his parents’ murderer been a Slytherin, but it was where Draco Malfoy had been sorted as well. As much as he admired this bold, interesting, pureblood boy, whose mischievous grin had captivated him the moment he had seen it, Harry had already lost his chance at Draco’s friendship, because he had felt the need to defend his friend. It felt obvious to Harry that Draco could never like him, even though Harry regretted the decision not to be Draco’s friend more than anything he had ever known. So Harry, with what seemed like no other choice, chose Gryffindor over Slytherin, for he thought Slytherin could never be his home if Draco weren’t his friend.  
“GRYFFINDOR!” The hat shouted, and one heart sang and one heart sank, when they heard its words. And they each turned away their newfound families, each doing their best to laugh and smile, and try to push thoughts of the other out of their heads.

3  
As the term began, Draco was delighted to discover he shared several of his classes with Harry. Though he would never act on his still existing and unexplained desire to be Harry’s friend (for fear of anyone getting a glimpse, however small, of the real him), he still looked forward to this time immensely. Whenever anyone would ask why he had circled Potions several times on his timetable, he would reply that it was the only class taught by a competent teacher, therefore his favorite and the only one he looked forward to. That was what his father had complained to him and his mother on numerous occasions, and everyone believed without question it was the kind of the thing Draco would say. Draco remained cool and collected at all times, he always knew exactly what to say and was excellent at preventing his true feelings, thoughts, or ideas from escaping his well locked mind. He had a cover for everything and made sure that no one knew of his rapidly growing fondness for Harry Potter. In fact, they were sure he hated him, which pleased him greatly, because it was exactly what he wanted them to think.  
It saddened Draco deeply when Professor Snape picked on Harry so cruelly in front of the entire class. How was Harry, raised by muggles, supposed to know all of his answers? His frustration at such an injustice caused him to come close getting out of his seat and yelling at Snape himself. He was absolutely nothing but a pathetic, nasty bully. And yet, when Potions was out and the day went on, Draco too mocked Harry mercilessly.  
He was in the Slytherin common room late one night when he realized that that was just what he was too, a bully, and this realization shook him to his core.  
Draco tried to convince himself he didn’t care, he couldn’t allow himself to care. All his life Draco had been a mean, hateful bully. It was how he covered up how he felt on the inside. So it obviously shouldn’t have bothered him that his new victim was Harry Potter. He was just another person for him to hurt, so that he could further project his image as the bully that the world thought him to be. But for some inexplicable reason it did, it bothered him, irritated him and upset him more than anything else in the world ever had. At first he was perplexed as to why it bothered him so, and when Draco couldn’t uncover any logical reasoning behind it, he became frustrated beyond belief. The reason for Draco hating being Harry’s bully was that he didn’t like himself being in the position of someone Harry hated. He didn’t want Harry to hate him. Because as much as he teased him (and not only to hide his true feelings anymore, for it had also become quite fun getting a reaction out of him), he still wanted Harry to like him. He still wanted ever so much to be his friend, even though Draco knew it was far too late. He was so remorseful and full of regret that he hadn’t made more of an effort to be Harry’s friend, or even be nice to him in even the smallest way.  
As he was thinking this, all of his remorse and regret twisted and morphed into wicked, horrible and unnecessary shame. He blamed himself entirely that Harry wasn’t his friend, and this blame only made him angry and more hateful and only further fuelled his resentment towards Harry Potter.

That same night, Harry sat alone in a plush armchair in the Gryffindor common room, contentedly watching the glowing fire slowly die out. The past few weeks had been the best of his entire life, and he would have been eager to continue with his classes all night if it weren’t for his desperate need for sleep.  
He began to doze off as he was hazily putting the finishing touches on a Charms paper due the next day. As he flickered between reality and dream, his thoughts returned to a person, a particular boy who had been creeping, slithering, if you will, into his mind of late, even though he had been trying very hard to shut him out. Draco Malfoy, youngest member of one of the oldest and richest wizarding families, seemed absolutely fascinating to someone like Harry who had been raised by muggles, completely unaware that people like Malfoy existed. But when Harry had tried to explain the reasoning behind his unnatural interest in Malfoy to his muggleborn friends, expecting them to understand more than anyone else would, they just didn’t seem to get it. Obviously they too were delighted and engrossed in everything they saw that the magical world had to offer, but for some reason when it came to Malfoy, everyone dismissed him as nothing more than a pompous jerk. But somehow, in some way, Harry knew he was so much more than that. He just felt it. He, for no explicable reason, was just sure. But there was certainly no point in trying to reach out to him. Everyday, in the classes they shared, Draco bullied him, teased him, mocked him, hurt him, picked on him and verbally abused him in more ways than he could count. This, though it broke his heart, made Harry sure Draco hated him.

Draco wished more than anything in the world that he could hate Harry. He wished he could find something in himself, something deep, deep down that could find a way to despise Harry Potter, but unfortunately, he couldn’t. Everything about him he found extremely likeable. He was sweet and endearing and adorably stubborn. He was talented and very cute when he was in awe of some newfound magical thing. He cared about his friends more than Draco could ever know how to. They weren’t really Draco’s friends, the sickeningly devoted admiring crowd that followed him blindly like a flock of mindless sheep, laughing at his jokes that weren’t funny and telling everyone they were his friend just to seem cool. They weren’t real friends, the kind of friends that truly cared about you and always had your back, the kind Harry had. That was another thing Draco masked with cruelty. He was jealous of how many people liked Harry for who he was, not because he was rich or famous like Draco (even though Harry was), but because people actually liked him for who he was, which was a feeling Draco could never know. Draco was sure, beyond the point of reason, that no one could ever like him for who he was. He hated himself, and knew everyone felt the same way. Or at least, he thought he knew.

4  
As their first year at Hogwarts wore on, this same routine continued, of Draco bullying Harry and Harry being just as nasty back, each harbouring secret thoughts and feelings for each other they never dared say. But at the end of the year, right after the exams had taken place, an event occurred that caused Draco’s world to shatter.  
He was in the Slytherin common room when he heard. He had been playing a game of wizard’s chess against Goyle, and winning magnificently too, when a strange and unsettling buzz of a chorus of nervous voices enter the air. He had looked up to see his housemates in loud conversation, and was about to get back to his game, assuming whatever they were talking about didn’t concern him, when he heard the words “Harry Potter”, “Professor Quirrell”, “The Philosopher’s Stone”, and, the most alarming and heart stopping of all; “The Dark Lord”.  
When Draco heard this his heart started pounding fervently and his head began to spin. He didn’t know what the Philosopher’s Stone was, nor did he care. And he couldn’t care less about Professor Quirrell. But hearing his nervous classmates fearfully whispering to each other about Harry Potter and You Know Who made Draco’s heart fill with fear and dread. He immediately shot up out of his seat, knocking the chess set to the floor with a loud clatter, and began demanding information from the other Slytherins, regardless of how much older they were of him. He screamed at them, he was desperately aching to know if Harry was alright, if Harry was even alive. The thought of Harry, precious Harry, cold and dead was one that he could not bear. Crabbe and Goyle had to restrain him to keep him from hurting anyone, while Pansy scurried off to fetch one of the Slytherin Prefects. Which shows, as unimportant to the story as it is in this moment, Draco was wrong. He did have real friends. Although he did not realize it, he had people who cared about him very, very much.  
Pansy returned moments later to Draco’s tantrum with a tall, lanky boy sporting an emerald green prefect badge. He crouched down next to Draco and tried to coax out what was troubling him, in a soft, kind voice in an attempt to comfort Draco, to soothe his screams, but it was no use. No one could stop him from yelling in tears for minutes on end:  
“Where’s Harry? Where’s Harry? WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO HARRY? WHAT DID YOU TO HARRY?” among many other things, for absolutely no reason that was apparent to anyone, not even his closest friends. And it was the only time his friends had ever heard him call Harry by his first name. He had put up his walls so high, and guarded them so well that it was a complete shock to everyone that he had felt so worried, so overwhelmed, so powerless when he had heard something had happened to Harry. By now, he had realized the gravity of what he had done. His tantrum had caused a massive shift to his image, but right now he was too numb to care. Right now, though he was trying his best to stop his shuddering sobs and control his shaky, weathered breathing, all he cared about was if Harry was alright. He needed Harry to be alright.

Days passed before Draco heard anything about Harry. During those days he had stayed shut up inside his dormitory nearly the entire time. Classes were out and the exams had passed, so he was free to sulk in his bed, the jade drapes of his four-poster drawn, melting into the puddle of worry and sadness he had created. He tried to distract himself, thinking that this kind of obsession was unhealthy, (he wasn’t wrong), by reading some of his books on quidditch, something he always enjoyed no matter what the circumstances. But it was no use. His attention kept reverting back to Harry like a paperclip to a magnet. When he was forced to show his face in the Great Hall at mealtimes, he held his head low and tried not acknowledge the tense silence that hovered around him everywhere he went, and infected those who were near to him. Pansy would tenderly ask him if he wanted to talk about what happened, and in response Draco would shut his eyes tight and shake his head. And it wouldn’t get brought up until the next meal.  
He was picking at his beef one night at supper, trying his hardest to be invisible, when he heard an exasperated fourth year exclaim to her friend:  
“I’ve heard he’s in the infirmary, unconscious. I’ve got a friend in Hufflepuff who’s planning on sending him flowers, the imbecile that she is. Honestly, if she wants Harry Potter to like her than she’s better off not making a fool out of herself by sending him a bouquet of flowers. It’s kind of pathetic.”  
Harry was alive! He was well! A massive wave of relief swept over Draco and he slumped in his seat, finally able to relax. He was so incredibly delighted and overjoyed to hear this, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. He smiled a broad and exuberant smile before realizing how crazy he looked, sitting there just smiling by himself. But that’s just what he wanted to do, just sit there and smile, overwhelmed by his own happiness.  
The fourth year had mentioned her friend was planning on sending Harry flowers, and Draco excitedly speculated to himself: What if I did the same? The idea appealed to him a great deal, sending The Boy Who Lived a get well present. Was really it pathetic, like she had said? Harry would certainly receive a large number of gifts anyway, and would he never have to know who had sent it. And his gift didn’t have to be as idiotic as a bouquet of flowers. His heart and mind began to race as he started formulating a plan.

Harry woke up suddenly, sitting up quickly and banging the side of his head on the wall, causing him to mutter an annoyed “Ouch!”. As he was rubbing the spot on his head where a small bruise was beginning to form, he noticed that the staggering pile of presents on the table at the end of his bed had grown noticeably larger since when he had fallen asleep. His last thoughts drifted to Professor Dumbledore cringing at the foul taste of poorly chosen jelly bean. A small smile formed at the thought, but quickly vanished as Harry winced at the pain it caused him. Other than his recently acquired bruise, Harry also had multiple scrapes and scratches that he had earned in his quest after the Philosopher’s Stone and to stop whoever was going to steal it.  
Not yet ready to think about that again, he focused his attention on his gifts. There must have been at least twenty unopened ones, and most of them were from people he had never even met. Still, presents were presents. He gleefully tore off the wrapping paper and examined the contents of each box and bag. Most of them were sweets, or flowers, or things from the joke shop in Hogsmeade, or in some rare cases, books.  
As he was stuffing his face with some Pumpkin Pasties he noticed a gift he had failed to acknowledge earlier, while he had been in a frenzy of unwrapping his other presents. It was an absolutely beautiful, stunning lily, as white as snow, and was quite unlike all the other flowers Harry had received and pushed aside. They were crude, overflowing bundles of colour that were barely held together by the feeble strings that bound them. This flower, however, was flawlessly beautiful without the slightest effort. It took your breath away. It was perfectly shaped and stood by itself in a tall, green glass vase. Its petals were the whitest of whites, a colour that seemed so inconceivably pure, as if they were by the angels themselves. It was serene and majestic, and yet so fragile, so delicate. The symbolism the lily held for him caused tears to spring to his eyes, though it wasn’t long before they vanished, for Harry was still immensely curious as to who had given it to him. It amazed him that a student had sent it, had put so much effort into a get well present, but who else could, or would have? He stroked it and wondered which student could possibly have sent it. Who cared enough to send such a beautiful, well-thought out and probably very expensive gift? It occurred to him to look for a gift tag, where there might be the name of whoever sent it, but when Harry found it there was nothing but a small, perfectly drawn silver heart. This sent another dozen questions rocketing into Harry’s mind, but at that moment, his exhaustion caught up to him and he collapsed, sinking deep into long overdue sleep and dreams of whoever his anonymous giver might be.

The next night, at the end of term feast, Draco waited with massive anticipation to see Harry in the Great Hall. He desperately hoped he would see him, he desperately needed to know that he was alright. When he wasn’t busy obsessing over Harry’s well being, he was questioning this obsession. Why, why, why did he care so much about a boy who clearly hated him? It was so clearly a waste of his time, but for some reason he just couldn’t get Harry out of his head. It had been this way all year, but now it was more than ever, now that Harry was hurt and in the hospital wing. Every time someone said Harry’s name his head would jerk in their direction, yearning to know if he was alright, even though it was now common knowledge that Harry was alive, awake, and surrounded by masses of presents from his many admirers. Draco wondered what Harry had thought of his gift, his lily, if he had even liked it. He had spent a long time trying to determine the perfect gift, and once he had it hadn’t been easy finding a flower as flawless as that one was. He had obviously not signed his name, Draco had blushed a deep scarlet when he was only considering it. Harry could never, ever know it was from him.  
As Draco continued pondering if Harry had liked his gift, an uproar of voices suddenly swept over the Great Hall. He looked towards the entrance and grinned when he saw the cause of the commotion. Harry had entered looking very much alive and well, and very happy too, though he was being plagued by his hoards of fans. An odd sense of jealousy rushed through Draco, seemingly from out nowhere, and even though it quickly passed, he spent a good few minutes just wondering where it had come from. Once it was gone, however, all Draco could, or knew how to feel was nothing but pure, blissful joy. Harry was alright, and Slytherin had won the house cup! …At least, it had seemed they did until Professor Dumbledore awarded Gryffindor an extra hundred and seventy points. But Draco didn’t even care anymore, he was just so relieved that Harry was alright.

Later on into the evening, when everyone was stuffed full of the delicious meal and was sleepily making their way back to their common rooms, Draco spotted Harry and his friends walking back to Gryffindor Tower, laughing amongst themselves. A bright pink rushed to Draco’s cheeks and his heart started thumping rapidly. It felt as though something that Draco had always known was there but had always tried his best to suppress was creeping back in. Was slowly possessing him and making him feel this mind numbing feeling that was causing his heart to speed up tremendously, then suddenly stop completely and fall into the pit of his stomach. He felt this way every time he saw Harry. This was just the first time that he noticed.  
This was when it finally dawned on Draco why he cared so much about Harry, why he obsessed about him, why he lost so much sleep over thinking about him. Why, when he heard something had happened to Harry, he had been brought to sobbing, the kind of sobbing that happens when you feel so incredibly powerless, so distressed that you can’t even breathe and you can’t do anything else but keep crying, because there isn’t anything else you remember how to do. Why he felt the most joyful, blissful relief when he heard Harry was alive, and why he sent him a lily, signed with a silver heart. The reason seemed so incredibly, totally, completely and stupidly obvious to Draco now, and it made him want to kill himself.  
He liked Harry.  
Liked liked him. He had an enormous, heart racing, mind numbing, impossibly huge crush on him, he had all year and it was just know that he was realizing it and it made him want to die. It made him hate himself more than ever before. He didn’t want to like Harry, he wanted with all his heart to be able to hate him, but he just couldn’t. Rather, he wanted to kiss him, or see those beautiful, captivating green eyes just one more time. And just having these kind of thoughts for the first time, the poor little frightened eleven year old that he was, sitting in the hallway his face as pale as a ghost’s, frightened him more than anything else in the world. He couldn’t allow himself to have a crush on Harry Potter, his rival, his enemy, his nemesis, a boy. Because not only wouldn’t his father allow it, and he wouldn’t allow himself to, but he knew, as much as it broke his heart into a billion tiny pieces to think this, that Harry hated him. So he would just have to stop liking him, stop liking precious Harry whom he adored so completely and had a massive crush on. That shouldn’t be too hard.

5  
Over the course of the next seven years, as Draco grew from a boy to a young man, he learned that unliking someone was much more difficult than he had thought it would be. In fact, it was entirely impossible. Every year at Hogwarts he spent countless hours pretending to hate Harry, hoping that if he pretended it enough it would come true, but he had no such luck. Even though he was becoming meaner and meaner towards him, every harsh word felt like a crack was slowly spreading through his heart. Each insult broke another piece of it, and every one of Harry’s retorts brought stinging tears to his eyes. Draco always had the perfect answer to everything, and as he grew older the walls guarding himself from the world shot up higher and higher into the sky, preventing anyone from seeing his secret, shameful love for Harry. That was something else that had only grown over the years. Against all of his efforts he loved Harry more and more, and even never showing even a fraction of it. He couldn’t get him out of his brain, couldn’t stop obsessing over him, because that’s what it had become; an obsession, each year it becoming sharper and more intense. Every night he cried, pining for him so deeply it hurt. And it wasn’t just Harry’s heart he wanted anymore, like when he had been twelve years old. He wanted all of Harry, with a deep hunger that gnawed at him day and night. He constantly dreamt when they would finally kiss, feel the warmth of each other's skin and their lips engulfed in each other’s, they would finally be together, and he would awake in tears, for he knew it could never be. He was still desperately afraid of his crush on Harry. Though it had been seven years since he had first acknowledged it, he was still afraid. He was afraid of what people, his friends, his parents, his peers, the world, would think of him if they ever found out he was gay. He was sure he would be bullied, shunned, and disowned for such an outrageous, outlandish statement, and yet it was nothing more than the simplest of truths. He had thought he had come to terms with his sexuality years ago, but now it was coming back to haunt him, and torture him over and over again. And he was terrified of it. He hated himself for loving Harry as much as he did, because he was supposed to hate Harry, and he did a little bit, but mostly just because Harry was the object of his affection, the cursed object of affection who didn’t love him back. His continuous, never-ending affection, even though to anyone watching it would look like both boys hated each other. And though this was exactly the image they wanted to project, it was a lie.  
When Harry was in their first year he had found Draco Malfoy very interesting and intriguing. A cute and witty pureblood boy who had been raised in the wizarding world he had found fascinating, though few others had shared his interest. But as Harry grew older this interest developed into something much more. Harry often found himself smitten by Draco and his knack for making words as smooth as silk, his beautiful silver blonde hair, his stunning and often startling stormy grey eyes. He would spend whole classes mooning over how totally and incredibly beautiful he was, getting lost in those eyes, and would find himself bushing furiously whenever Malfoy caught him staring at him. He knew he was gay and didn’t care the same way Draco did. He didn’t hide from it. He knew his friends accepted him the way he was. They loved him and cared about him more than Harry thought he deserved. He didn’t expect, however, that they would accept or understand his ever-growing crush on Malfoy. As much as Harry loved him, that couldn’t excuse all the pain and misery Malfoy had caused him and his friends over the years. Sometimes though, and later on Harry would assure himself he had been imagining things, he was almost civil towards Harry. Harry had even caught Malfoy staring at him once or twice. But Harry forced himself to banish such notions. He knew for a fact Malfoy hated him and couldn’t allow himself to think like that. As if Malfoy would ever stare at him out of anything other than pure loathing.  
Isn’t it so sadly ironic, dear reader, that these two poor, tortured boys love each other so much, but are convinced beyond the point of reason that the other hates them? A horrible, heartbreaking, tragic shame, really.

After the Battle of Hogwarts there was a lot of discussion among the teachers and the school board, and it was decided (primarily by the new Headmistress, Professor McGonagall), that a new year would be added to the school, an eighth year, for the reason that many of the seventh years hadn’t, for various reasons, gotten a proper education, or even graduated from Hogwarts the last school year. Classes had been taught by Death Eaters and students had been pulled out of school by their families for multiple reasons. Proving at once to be an excellent Headmistress, (as everyone had known she would be), Professor McGonagall was already putting the needs of her students first, caring very deeply that they get their full education and leave Hogwarts prepared for the trials and difficulties of adulthood as young wizards and witches. She made it known it wasn’t mandatory to come back to school, but surprised (but certainly not at all disappointed) when the majority of the previous year’s seventh years returned to Hogwarts. Some were forced to go by their parents, but a great number of them chose to come, out of their own free will. Harry, Ron and Hermione decided to go before Molly Weasley had a chance to force them to, for even after the Battle of Hogwarts they were still eager to return to what still felt like their home. Though many damages had been done to the castle, and though there had been many tragic casualties during the war, Hogwarts, to quote Albus Dumbledore, “Will always be there to welcome you home.”  
And welcome them home it certainly did, a flood of mixed emotions rushing through Harry as he stepped off the train in Hogsmeade and got his first look at the castle in the distance. It was just as great, just as grand, and just as magnificent as he remembered.  
It pained Harry like a knife to his heart when he heard the collective gasps of the students, mostly the older ones, when the carriages arrived from the sky. The ones who had fought in the Battle of Hogwarts and survived were shocked to see the incredible beasts that were pulling the carriages, the mighty thestrals that can only be seen by someone who has witnessed death. The thestrals seemed confused and annoyed by all the attention they were getting, and after the commotion had died down, the students climbed into the carriages and flew off to Hogwarts.  
When Harry and his friends sat down at the Gryffindor table he was immensely grateful for how peaceful it was. Outside of Hogwarts he was mobbed by reporters, writers and fans. He had had enough of teenage witches sobbing over him and demanding his autograph, and nosy reporters demanding an inside story of the past year. Hogwarts was a place where he was safe from all of that, it was a place of comfort and security. (And the students at Hogwarts were all fairly bored of him by now, even if he had defeated the Dark Lord not but four months ago.)  
Harry looked over to the Slytherin table, and cursed under his breath. He had hoped, begged, pleaded with any generous enough deity that he no longer had a crush on Malfoy, no longer fancied him so it made his head dizzy, no longer had to put a reasonable amount of effort into resisting the urge to snog him senseless, like every time he had seen him in the last year. But he had no such luck. Just a brief glance at the Slytherin table and at beautiful, flawless Draco made his heart feel like it was fluttering out of his chest. He looked away, praying no one had noticed him become so flustered and shaky, and praying the deep red staining his cheeks would hurry away.

Draco was quiet. He sat in the thick silence all alone by himself, just as he had his entire life. He was worried that if he spoke, everything would come gushing out, and he wouldn’t be able to stop it. He hadn’t wanted to come back to Hogwarts, but his mother had forced him to return and now he was trapped, trapped in a prison forged by mistakes. He was a stain on the school, and with every step he took down the cold, hating corridors he soiled it only more. He could hear the whispers in the hallways, hissing at him like snakes. Coming back to Hogwarts was a scathing reminder of everything he had done wrong, and all the hurt he caused. Coming back to Hogwarts was also a reminder of everything he lost, and everything that he could never have. Like a person. Like Harry.  
Draco didn’t have a juvenile, immature crush on Harry anymore, like some thirteen year old girl. He was full on in love with him, and every time he saw him it was like a thousand needles piercing through his heart. He loved him more than ever before, so that every time Harry was merely mentioned, every time Harry crossed his mind a sharp, stabbing pain rushed through him. His love for Harry was so colossal, so unconditional, so pure and true, that the heartbreak Draco woefully suffered from tore him right in two. He was seeing Harry everywhere in the corner of his eye, his breathing was becoming shaky and weathered, and every night he cried himself in shuddering, shaky sobs, to sleep. He was a broken boy, slowly being driven insane by a love he could never have, and how much, how deeply, he loathed himself, for all the terrible things he had done. His emotions were becoming so built up and stuffed up inside him, that he was ready to tear himself apart. His walls were now towering high above everything, scraping the stars. What he felt was the sharpest, most dreadful sting of sadness. It was heartbreak, and it was killing him, from the inside out.  
His friends had begun to notice they were seeing less and less of Draco, and when they were with him, he hardly spoke at all anymore. Most of his friends decided to leave him alone to deal with his problems on his own, because many of them were truly as unfeeling as Draco had once pretended to be. But one friend stood out from the crowd. Draco’s best friend, Pansy Parkinson, the same little eleven year old girl who had run off to find a prefect when she had thought Draco had needed help in their first year. An obnoxious, annoying, rude, raven-haired Slytherin girl with little to no care or concern for the rest of the world, but an overwhelming love for Draco. She cared for him as only a best friend could, and was distressed and worried to see him acting so distant towards his closest friends. She knew he had been through a lot in the last year, and though she didn’t know many details, she knew how dangerous it was for him to keep everything bottled up like he was doing. Pansy may have been rude and obnoxious, but she could be caring too. She was still human, but even more than that, she was Draco’s friend.  
One night Draco returned to his dorm, overwhelmed and dizzy from the day’s events, his head spinning as usual, small cracks travelling through his heart from seeing Harry across a corridor five minutes earlier, only to be distracted by something on the pillow of his bed. It was a diary, a beautifully crafted, leather-bound journal, its cover an absolutely stunning shade of emerald-green that left him breathless, and the cream pages, crisp and new, positively begging for someone to write in them. Inside the cover was a message: “If you keep bottling up everything up like this, you’re going to explode!” followed by a winking smiley face. It was no mystery to Draco who had given him the diary (he had learned to forge her handwriting years ago), but he didn’t feel like dwelling on that. He, surprising himself, wanted to write.  
And write he did. He poured his heart out into that diary, telling it everything that had been bottled up inside him. He told it his deepest, darkest, most painful secrets, ones he would never dare tell a single living soul, and once he had written them, he immediately had started to feel better. All this time all he had needed was to tell someone, but there was no one he felt comfortable in the slightest telling. The diary was perfect. It wasn’t a real person, and yet, Draco truly felt like it listened to him. 

6  
Ever since receiving the journal months ago, Draco’s life had improved significantly. After letting out all the feelings he felt for Harry, he felt like a huge weight had been lifted of his back, one which he had been struggling with for years, and had only gotten heavier with each. Now, he felt relaxed, and relieved. He wasn’t exactly happy, for he still pined for Harry so that he couldn't help but stare at him during every class they had together, dream about him nearly every night, and was still head over heels in love with him, no less than he had been at the start of the year. But now, at least, he was much more at peace. He no longer felt the constant and unkillable urge to claw his heart out of his chest and rip it to shreds with his own fingernails just to stop the pain. He was no longer in such devastating pain.  
Meanwhile, during these past few months, Pansy had been sneaking into Draco’s dorm and reading the entries he wrote in his diary every chance she got. She had found it easily; it was hidden in his pillow case… she supposed the relief of getting out what he had bundled up inside him must have quite careless, to be hiding it in a pillowcase. It was completely un-Draco to hide something that personal and precious in a pillowcase, of all the obvious places. When she read the first sentence Draco had written (“I’m gay and hopelessly in love with my worst enemy”), the first thing she did was look up at the ceiling and mutter to herself, her words absolutely dripping with rich exasperation:  
“Can’t say I’m surprised…”  
She followed his entries all the way up until Draco stopped writing them, and with every time she invaded his privacy and read what was never meant for her eyes, she found herself loving him even more. The diary entries were the most beautiful, tragic, moving, and romantic things she had ever seen, and they brought tears to eyes that usually held cruelty, and caused them to dribble down cheeks that rarely ever turned up in an honestly kind smile. She wasn’t often reduced to such a mess, but Draco’s beautiful, honest, pure, and undeniably true love for Harry had her mouth gaping wide open, had her sobbing and shuddering, had her clutching her heart and desperately gasping for shaky breath that hurt her lungs between each tearful and heartfelt sob. It was as if someone had reached into her chest and wrenched out her still-beating heart, and then slowly began to crush it in their fist in front of her while she watched, powerless to stop them as it turned to dust. She willingly let these feelings consume her, because she had begun to think that she wasn’t capable of feeling at all anymore, and was almost happy to be brought to such deep, heart-crushing sadness, to be forced to fall apart. Pansy hadn’t felt this much despair and heartbreak in her entire life. She trembled as tears dripped from her eyes from the pain of it, and it hadn’t even started out as her pain. Pansy was so utterly moved by these by these unashamed confessions, the purest declarations of love told to no one, that she was sure should be shared with the world, but they were instead so cruelly confined to the pages of the diary. They were innocents wrongly imprisoned. And she, Pansy, needed to set them free.  
The world deserves to know this love, she whispered to herself, her cheeks stained with sticky, messy tears, and so does Harry.  
This was when the gears in Pansy’s mind began to turn, and she began to formulate a plan, a plan that, if succeeded, would surely change all of their lives, forever.

Before anything else, Pansy needed to know that Harry loved, or at least liked, Draco in return, otherwise she would be completely wasting her time. She watched him carefully all throughout every class that he, she, and Draco shared. She paid careful attention to see if Harry blushed at all when he looked at Draco, if he even looked at Draco at all. She didn’t notice anything in the first few classes, though Draco’s massive crush on Harry was painfully obvious to her now. Had he no tact at all?  
During he second week of studying Harry, however, something caught her eye. Harry was loaded down with books from Transfiguration, and as they were leaving the classroom, like the clumsy oaf he was (no, she scolded herself, Draco’s madly in love with him, be nice) he stumbled and tripped under the weight of the books and would have fallen if Draco hadn’t been standing there and had awkwardly caught him in his arms. The whole situation was already making Pansy swoon, the shameless fangirl that she was, and then she noticed how Harry was blushing a deep red that the scarlet of his Gryffindor robes was sure to envy, and how he was leaning into Draco and seemed to be struggling to find somewhere to place his feet. Draco too was blushing, though less noticeably than Harry, and when his mind began to function once more he shoved Harry off of him into the wall and swept out of the classroom and off to his next class, not daring to look either Harry or even Pansy in the eye.  
“Er… thanks,” Harry mumbled under his breath, adjusting his glasses and scampering out the door, a lovely crimson still hanging just below his eyes.  
Pansy had watched the whole scene wearing an expression that showed no emotion whatsoever, but inside she was just dying to burst into joyful, happy melody. As soon as she was out of anyone’s sight the song inside her won and a wide, jubilant grin spread across her face. She had found out exactly what she had set out to, and now, having acquired all the information she needed, she could put her life-altering plan into action.

Harry hurried to his next class, humiliation practically seeping from him. He hadn’t felt this embarrassed in a long while, and he certainly hadn’t missed the feeling. He had been crumbling under the weight of his many textbooks and hadn’t been looking where he was going. He bumped into a desk, tripped and stumbled right into the arms of none other than Harry’s crush, the boy he was positively lovesick with, the one person who made his heart feel like it was running a marathon and stopped him from being able to form coherent sentences, Draco Malfoy. Gorgeous, stunning Draco who not only had him stumbling over his words, but his own two feet as well as he had struggled to stand. When Draco had shoved him off of him and strut out of the room, it had felt like a thousand tiny fractures rippling through his heart. Why, oh why, did he have to love someone who hated him so much?  
“Harry, you’re blushing, your face is red all over,” Hermione observed, startling him out of his thinking to himself, as they found seats in Charms, “what happened?” He hadn’t noticed her quietly walking with him, nor had he seen her curiously studying his face as he had been silently scolding himself on the way to class, worriedly wondering what could have made him this upset.  
“Nothing. I mean… er… I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry muttered passively in reply, refusing to look her in the eye as he willed the burning scarlet he was blushing to fade away.  
“It was so rude of Malfoy to push you like that, although it’s not like he could ever be polite,” Hermione went on, brushing her bushy brown hair out of her face and eyeing Harry, “but I’m quite surprised he caught you at all. It was odd of him, wasn’t it? What do you think would motivate him to do that?” She was speculating more to herself than to anyone else, and when she did this Harry knew it was wisest just to leave her be. And so for the little time remaining before class began he just thought to himself, most of his thoughts concerning Draco Malfoy, and how much he loved him, and how much it annoyed himself that he did.

Draco cursed himself as he hurried to his stupid Herbology class. How could he have been so stupid? Why on earth did he have to catch Potter, when it would have been so easy to let him fall? But the truth was, it wouldn’t have been easy. Draco was fairly sure he would do almost anything for Harry, and he would certainly do his best to keep him from harm. Still, catching Harry did a lot of damage to whatever ruined piece of a reputation he had left. And then, he found himself shocking himself once more. He was surprised to discover that he didn’t care about his reputation anymore. It was meaningless, childish and petty to him, and he deeply regretted all the time he had wasted caring about it. He had grown so much as a person since the Battle of Hogwarts, and once he knew that, he finally realized what others, others who cared about him, had known for years now: He wasn’t a bad person. Draco had spent his whole life thinking he was a bad person, an evil, horrible, terrible person, and hating himself for it. The truth was Draco had never once loved himself in his entire life. Finally, after all his years of hating himself, he realized he never had reason to. Yet he still could never forgive himself for all of the horrible things he done, the things that kept anyone from ever loving him. As emotionally exhausted as he already was, this did nothing to help his deep, never-ending suffering. He leaned against the wall and slumped to the floor, and bawled tears of sadness, desperation, exhaustion and defeat. These tears were similar to the ones he had shed when he had been dying of worry over Harry’s condition in their first year, but these ones were born not of worry and concern. No, these were born of anger and pity towards himself, for having wasted seven years wallowing in hate, when he could have loved. He was just so tired of feeling. He wished he could be the cold, heartless person the rest of the world believed him to be, never having to deal with hating, or loving, or crying, or feeling. He had always pretended that nothing ever hurt him, but in reality, everything did. He sobbed into his hands, wishing with all his broken heart that all his confusion, sadness, anger, anguish, and undying love for a certain Harry Potter would all just go away.

When Draco was returning to his dormitory that evening he was feeling better (not happy, but better), and was itching to write in his diary about the day’s events. It was the beginning of the Christmas Holidays and he was glad for the peace and quiet it would grant him, even though Harry and his friends would also staying at Hogwarts for Christmas. His parents had a lot to deal with and Draco was happy to leave them to it, even it meant spending the holidays without them. Oh well. At least he’d have Pansy, who he’d noticed had become strangely quiet in the past few days. Goyle would be there, Blaise was spending Christmas with his family that year, and Crabbe… no, he couldn’t, Draco absolutely couldn’t think about Crabbe yet. By this time he had reached his dormitory, and didn’t have to.  
He picked up his pillow and noticed it felt unusually light. He pulled off the pillowcase, expecting his diary to fall out onto the bed, but strangely, it didn’t. There was nothing there. Draco’s eyes widened in fear, his head began to spin with questions and his heart felt like it was going to thump right out of his chest. His eyes darted around the room, and began frantically searching through his and his dorm mates’ possessions, ransacking the room, throwing things through the air left and right, but it was no use. His diary was gone.

7  
As Christmas raced towards them, Harry was grateful for an opportunity to relax and have fun with his friends. Through gruelling determination, he had finally seemed to have gotten Draco out of his head and was enjoying the holidays immensely.  
Draco, on the other hand, had never been so stressed in his life. His diary was missing, the diary he had poured his heart out into, the diary he had told his deepest, darkest most shameful secrets and desires. He had written in it about Harry, the boy he considered himself hopelessly, completely, entirely and truly in love with beyond saving, and everyone else considered his worst enemy. Had someone stolen it? Had they read it? Were they reading it now? Questions buzzed around in Draco’s mind like a cloud of bees swarming their hive. He was so stressed he couldn’t sleep, so scared he couldn't focus, and so restless he couldn’t sit still. He was terrified of the thought of someone else reading it, knowing his most shameful secrets and seeing past his walls. He was terrified of being that vulnerable.  
Draco was becoming very nervous and fidgety as Christmas crept towards them. He was too distracted to notice any of the beautiful decorations in the Great Hall or how lovely the castle looked dusted with a light sheet of pre-Christmas snow. Rather, he was thinking of all the possible people who could have found and read his diary. The longer the list became, the more he worried. He lost so much sleep obsessing over who could have taken it. He couldn’t think straight, and wasn’t able to eat anything it worried him so. He was so distracted by his own problems he hadn’t noticed how Pansy had seemed quite happy these past few days, gleefully skipping down the halls, humming carols and being unusually friendly to the few students or teachers she met in the halls. He was sure this was more than just the Christmas spirit that had put her in such a joyful mood, but Draco was too preoccupied with his own problems to bother himself with why Pansy was choosing not to damage fragile and emotionally unstable preteens’ self-esteem anymore. That is, until it happened to concern him so very, very much.

Christmas Day, and Draco’s anxiety levels were at their highest. He did his best to try to push thoughts of his stolen diary out of his mind and enjoy the joyous holiday, but they just kept creeping back in. He brought his collection of presents to the common room so he could open them together with the only other Slytherins staying, his friends; Pansy and Goyle.  
Draco was opening his presents, not much caring what he got, when he came to the one from Pansy. He unwrapped it, and was startled and confused to see that the gift was a card. He quickly cast the wrapping aside when he read the message written in the inside of the card. In green, curly writing it ominously said:  
“You’re welcome.”  
He immediately looked up to see her smiling at him, an evil grin alive on her face. His mind began to spin with questions, but the nagging voice in his head was sure that this had to be linked to his missing diary. He grabbed her and pulled her to her feet and to a corner of the room, leaving Goyle sitting on the floor very confused.  
“What. Did. You. Do?” Draco hissed at her, his voice bleeding with the deadliest seriousness as his heart pounded in his ears.  
“I only did what you’re too afraid to,” she replied, smiling again with that same wicked sweetness. “Afraid of rejection, afraid of humiliation, afraid of him not returning the colossal and ever-growing love you feel for him. So I just gave you a little push, that’s all.” She grinned at him again with a grin that stopped his heart, for it was with that evil and rapturous smile that he realized what she had done. She had been almost directly quoting truths he had confessed to his diary. Suddenly, a look of realization dawned on Draco’s face, one which was almost immediately replaced with one of absolute fear.

Harry had woken that morning with a broad smile spread wide across his face; it was Christmas! Waking up early and tearing the wrapping off presents had never lost its joy for Harry, and he was excited to experience yet another wonderful Christmas at Hogwarts with his friends. Both Ron and Hermione were staying this year, and as soon as they were all awake they rushed downstairs with their presents to open them together.  
Harry had gotten numerous terrific gifts from all his friends and family. (You could argue that Harry doesn’t have any family, but then who on earth to Harry is Mrs. Weasley?) Harry also found that he had received many gifts sent to him by fans, most of which he tossed into the fire without even bothering to look at them.  
He was in the middle of noisily munching on some treacle tarts (from Ron), when he noticed a still unwrapped gift, one about the shape and size of a book. How strange, for he had already gotten something from Hermione. Before unwrapping it, he noticed a tag stuck to the wrapping paper. It said “You’re Welcome” on it, in curly, untidy cursive, written in light green ink. Intrigued, Harry carefully removed the wrapping paper, revealing it to indeed be a book, a beautiful, emerald green book. And yet, it was not a book, for the pages were swamped with rushed, yet elegant handwriting, as if the writer had needed to get whatever he was writing out of him immediately. Harry noticed that at the bottom of the diary entries, as small as can be, was written with delicacy: “Love, Draco.”  
Harry’s heart began to hammer noisily in his chest and he slammed the book shut, making a loud noise that startled Ron and Hermione, who had been feeding each other gingerbread. (Ew.) Harry sped up the stairs to his dormitory and immediately locked the door behind him, leaving a concerned and confused Ron and Hermione staring after him incredulously. He collapsed onto his bed, completely overwhelmed. This was Draco’s diary. His crush’s diary. His heart beat faster and faster just thinking of all the things that could be written in it. There was a split second of hesitation before he pried it open once more and began to tear through it, eagerly devouring each and every word. But by the time he had reached the second sentence, he wasn’t so eager to read it anymore.  
Once sweet, simple Harry had figured out what his beloved Malfoy was saying in these pages was that he liked Harry, he became sure he had to be dreaming, because there was no way this could ever be true. In these pages, it clearly stated that Draco had a crush on him. A huge crush on him. Okay, Draco had written he was hopelessly in love with him with the deepest, purest, truest, most heart stopping, breathtaking, heartbreaking love. Just as soon as Harry had thought he had finally banished Draco from his mind, he once again had found some diabolical way of creeping back in. It was such a totally Malfoy thing to do.. Before Harry’s mind spun completely out of control and his heart exploded and burst right through his chest, the logical voice in his head made its opinion known.  
“It’s a trick,” it practically shouted at him, “Malfoy is trying to humiliate you again, just like he always does. You shouldn’t believe a word you read.” But as much as he didn’t want to get sucked into another one of Malfoy’s cruel jokes, he did want with all his Malfoy-loving heart to believe what he read in the diary, for it to be the truth. For Malfoy to love Harry with the same limitless love with which Harry loved him, for him to want him with the same scorching ferocity with which Harry wanted him. It did seem, from reading these diary entries, that Malfoy did indeed love him and want him as much, if not even more, that Harry did him. But was what he read the truth?  
Harry’s heart was thumping rapidly in his chest. He knew he couldn’t hide in his dormitory forever, or even all morning. But he also knew he couldn’t dismiss this new information, whether it be true or not, like it was nothing. He was still in a state of shock, and knew that he had go somewhere where he wouldn’t be bothered, somewhere where he could be alone to think and process this, away from prying eyes.  
Harry’s heart still beating out of control, he grabbed the diary and scooped up his map and Invisibility Cloak from his trunk. He draped it over himself and silently crept out of the room and down the spiral staircase. He tiptoed past Ron and Hermione, who were still sitting together by the fire and enjoying their Christmas presents and each other’s company. A weak smile forced its way to Harry’s lips at the sight of them cuddling together on Christmas morning, but soon melted away when he remembered, well, everything.  
He snuck through the halls to the one place he knew he wouldn’t be bothered. Or so he thought he knew.

Draco was scared. Terrified. Worried. Stressed. He had fled from the common room in an anxiety filled panic once he’d realized what Pansy had done, leaving her still standing in the corner, full of her own malicious happiness, and leaving Goyle still very confused. Oh, what had she done? Had she really given his diary to Harry, because if so, if she truly had sent the diary in which he had poured his heart out into to the boy he had a massive crush on, he was just about ready to kill himself. If Harry knew how much he loved him, Draco was growing more certain by the minute that the entire building would collapse, a meteor would hit the earth, the world would end and all chaos would break loose. Because that was how terrible Draco knew it would be if Harry read his diary.  
He ran through the halls, up and down the hundreds of staircases, searching for something, anything. He knew that if Harry had already received and read his diary then there was nothing he could do, but he just couldn’t do nothing. So bounding about the castle he soared in a fearful fury, terrified tears streaming from his eyes and down his breathless, rosy cheeks, searching for something, searching for anything.  
He had been racing down a corridor when he stopped to catch his breath and finally realized the pointlessness of tearing through the castle at top speed like a maniac. There had to be an easier, smarter way to find Harry, or rather, his diary. Once he had caught his breath and wiped the tears from his eyes, he started to pace in circles, thinking to himself of how much, how desperately he needed to find his diary. Suddenly, to his surprise, a door began to form in the wall, appearing out of thin air. It was then that Draco realized where he was. It was a corridor he had spent quite a lot of time in not two years ago, and a corridor he wished very dearly to forget. It was here, in the room behind that door that he had spent a year repairing a magical cabinet that had transported the Death Eaters to Hogwarts and had led to the murder of Professor Dumbledore and to the capture of Hogwarts. Every time he thought of it, among the many other terrible things he had done, it felt like a stab in the heart. His regret was heavy and loomed over him constantly, even after he had written so much in his diary, for some things never truly faded away, or at least not without a fight. This corridor and this door held nothing but bad memories for him.  
But this fateful Christmas morning, it was something of a miracle! Draco had been thinking of how much he needed his diary back, the sense of security and relief it would bring him, and the door had appeared! His diary must have been behind it, for the Room of Requirement only reacted to fit your needs when you paced three times in front of it and thought of what you desired, what you desperately needed most. Draco’s heart soared as he turned the handle, but then plummeted to the deepest pits of despair when he stepped into the room. For his diary was there, it was true. And so was Harry.

8  
“You!” Harry yelled in shock and terrified surprise upon seeing Draco, jumping up from his chair, his voice an octave higher than he had meant for it to be. He had been mentally preparing himself for what he knew was inevitable for over an hour in the Room of Requirement, reading and rereading the diary, planning what he would say if and when he came face to face with Draco. But now, staring into those fearful, stormy grey eyes, filled with horror and uncertainty, he realized that nothing could have prepared him for this. He still couldn’t wrap his head around it. Draco in love with him? It seemed so unlikely. So when he found himself standing frozen, ten feet from Draco, with terror painted on his face in what seemed a messy fury, he took a gamble and decided it couldn’t possibly be true.  
“Do you really think I’m stupid enough to fall for this, Malfoy?” He demanded, his heart breaking with every word, shaking the book in the air. “I’m not an idiot.”  
Draco was desperately searching for something to say, a witty retort that would spring to his lips with the simplest ease, but nothing came. For the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words. Inside his chest, his heart was splitting in two. Harry, the boy he was desperately in love with really did hate him. But still, a feeble, yet existing shred of hope lingered in Draco’s heart. Harry thought the diary was a prank. He didn’t think it was real.  
“I’ve known you for a long time, Malfoy, and honestly, I’m surprised you would stoop this low just to humiliate me. It’s really quite pathetic,” Harry proclaimed, doing his best to sound like he was mocking him, when in reality, it was the last thing he ever wanted to do. He never wanted to hurt him, not anymore. That hate had melted away long ago, and what had remained is what could best be described as only the most genuine and heartfelt love, and it killed Harry every day thinking Draco hated him. He waited for Draco to respond, for him to say something, anything… but he said nothing. He stood in the entrance, his mouth gaping wide open and his eyes filled with fear. Harry became quiet, and the tension and anticipation grew, along with the ominous silence that was slowly filling the room. Both boys’ hearts were pounding, their eyes searching for answers in the other’s.  
“Unless… “ Harry whispered softly, his voice quivering with new uncertainty, every new second doubting even more the words he had been yelling at Malfoy just seconds ago, “unless…”  
And suddenly, something between them shifted. Something shifted, and moved, and finally clicked into place, for the very first time. Harry, a look of shock and astonishment sweeping over his face, looked up and locked eyes with Draco, whose sound mind would never in a million years want Harry to know how much he loved him. But his eyes, those stormy grey, ever-changing eyes, now swimming with shameful tears, betrayed him. He had made sure his eyes had always been bland and emotionless, had been what kept people from seeing inside his walls. But for the first time ever, his eyes failed him. Those eyes held the truth, and for the first time, Harry saw it. Harry, for the first time, truly realized it. Tears flooded and spilled out of his own astonished emerald eyes, as he clapped a hand to his mouth in shock and sobbed into it, pain seeping through him.  
It was all true. Draco loved him. And he loved Draco. So why weren’t they happy?

Hours later, not much had changed. They sat at opposite ends of room, their backs to each other. The room had supplied them with food and water and any other needs, but other than that and a few armchairs, it was bare.  
Draco, in a tearful fury, had been the first to try the door, but to his horror, he had found it locked. The room somehow knew that they needed to resolve something, and that it would take some time.  
So they just sat, their backs to each other, and thought. And felt. And died inside.  
Draco felt hollow. His entire soul; his heart, his hopes, his dreams, his fears and his desires had all been exposed to his crush, because of one idiot who thought she could solve the world’s problems by meddling in his life, but all she did was ruin it. It felt like there was a gaping hole in the middle of him. Where there should have been boy, there was nothing. He just felt empty. Harry hated him still, and his life was over. His every painful, shameful secret had been spilled to the one person who never could have been allowed to know. He was heartbroken, but more than that, he just felt… broken.  
Harry was breathing hoarse, shallow, shaky breaths as his chest heaved, trying to calm himself, and cold tears were escaping his eyes, sliding down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. He cried for the sake of sadness, despite his constantly wiping his tears away, praying that they stay inside him but them never caring to listen. He still couldn't believe it; everything he had read was true. Draco was in love with him, he wanted him, and had since they were eleven. Eleven! He was flattered, (of course he was, he was Harry), and so deeply moved. But he didn’t dare be happy, for the shuddering sobs coming from Draco across the room sent a far different message than the one he had read in the pages of the diary. As if Harry had been struck by lightning, an idea hit him. He reached into the pockets of his robes and pulled out a quill and a bottle of ink. He flipped open the diary, uncorked the ink, dipped in it his quill, and began to write, pouring out words and thoughts he had always known were there but he had never truly realized, until now. Until he wrote them with a purpose.  
Draco was dabbing with his sleeve at his sticky, tear-stained cheeks, trying to ignore his heart which hadn’t yet finished crying, when his diary slid across the floor to him. He snatched it up, not even bothering to glance at Harry (he was quite certain that he would surely die if he did), and pried it open. All of the pages were still there, and nothing had been written in them. At least, that was what he thought until he reached the end of his entries, and was surprised to see that the writing continued. But it wasn’t his writing. It was a messy, childish scrawl, scribbled in deep crimson ink, and Draco knew whose hand it belonged to the moment he saw it. Hands trembling and heart banging in his chest, he began to read.  
“Dearest diary,  
There’s this boy that I like, and have liked for a very long time. I’ve had a crush on him for almost four or five years now, and during every one of those I was sure he hated me, and thinking that stopped me from ever acting on my feelings for him, which only grew over the years. But recently, I’ve begun to have my doubts of how strongly he hated me, if he even hated me at all.  
I love everything about him. His hair, his eyes. His nose, his smile. How he’s witty and clever. How he’s quick to defend the people he loves. I love how he cares so deeply, so passionately about things, even though he tries to look like he doesn’t. I can always see it in his face, in his eyes. I love how he has friends that would do anything for him, friends who will go to very drastic measures for his happiness, (hence me having this journal in my possession), friends that care about him more than themselves, because he inspires that kind of love from many, especially from me. I love everything about him… I may love him.  
You’ve probably guessed by now of whom I’m speaking, (I very dearly hope you have). I earlier wrote that I’ve begun to doubt if he hates me as much as he tries to look like he does. Well… I guess we’ll see.  
Love, Harry”  
Draco looked up, tears flooding his eyes anew, but this time, they were born not of sadness, nor of shame, nor of self-hatred. They were born of love, and love alone.  
He looked at Harry, who was giving him a small but kind smile, the same adorable smile Draco had loved since the very first time he had seen it. Draco felt a wave of dizzy happiness wash over him. But still, he had something to say.  
“I’m Malfoy,” he said, speaking at last, his voice crackling like something breaking with every word. “I’ve made your life a living hell for the past seven years. I’ve hurt you, your friends, and each and every single person you care about beyond the point of reason, just to keep people from seeing inside the walls that I put up. Just to keep people from seeing how much I liked you. And I am so, so sorry. More than you can believe. I’m a broken, shattered shell of a human being. There’s barely enough human left in me to love.  
“Six years ago, when you were in the hospital wing, recovering from whatever happened to you in the third floor corridor, I sent you a gift. It was a lily-”  
“It was you!” Harry shouted in surprise, his eyes widening in realization, “you were the one who sent it to me!”  
“Potter, will you just shut up and-,” Draco snapped at him hotly, then caught himself. “Will you please let me finish?” Harry shamefully nodded and he continued.  
“As I was saying, six years ago, I gave you a gift. This year, the only gift I can give you… is me. I know I’m not much of a gift worthy of the Chosen One. I know you deserve far better than me. But if you still want this broken, shattered shell of a boy, if you still want me, then… I’m yours.”  
Draco sat in mournful silence, waiting for Harry to respond, yet he did nothing. In this moment, Draco was overwhelmed by the heartbreak that was slowly consuming him, devouring his heart whole. On the outside his expression remained emotionless, except for one stray, cold tear he had failed to catch in time to stop from rolling off his cheek and falling through the air as if in slow motion, and sinking into the cold stone floor. He was sure, even after reading Harry’s message, that he would reject him. He was vile, cold, and empty, and he wasn’t worthy of Harry Potter. No one could ever love him.  
Harry, on the other hand, was overwhelmed by just how much he loved Draco Malfoy, and by how much his love for him had grown just from Draco’s speech. He loved him so much he could hardly think straight, and all he could hear was his heart pounding right out of his chest like never before. He had to grab the edge of a chair to steady himself, for he was feeling very dizzy and light and fluttery all of a sudden, and his legs were beginning to fail on him, for they now felt like they were made of jello. He took a few deep breaths, and after the hazy fog in his brain had lifted, only one thought remained. He knew what he had to do.  
There had been several minutes of thick, tense silence, when Harry suddenly surged towards Draco, and for a moment, he had been afraid he was going to hit him. But this thought was soon discouraged when Harry grabbed him, so tightly it hurt, and pressed his lips onto his own, sending Draco into a heart racing, jubilant, joyful bliss that, in all his eighteen years, was new to him. He melted into it, like shards of snow and ice by a roaring fire, or like an icy cold heart feeling real warmth and love for the first time. What he was feeling was real and beautiful, loving and pure, and long, long overdue. Delicious, icy shivers were trickling down his back, and his heart felt like it had fallen into his stomach and was now sloshing around in his digestive juices. He had felt many times before upon seeing Harry, but never before had the feeling so consumed him. He startled Harry when he pulled away from their kiss, confused and lost, and blushing a deep, rosy scarlet.  
“But, I’m me,” he argued, bewildered, to the kiss, feeling that was reason enough as to why Harry shouldn’t be kissing him. Why he couldn’t possibly love him. It didn’t make any sense at all to him that he did. But to Harry, it made all the sense in the world.  
“I know,” Harry told him, his gorgeous green eyes sparkling with joyful tears, “and that’s why I love you. Because you’re you.” And with this, he pulled Draco close and their lips met once more into the most wonderful, loving kiss, and this time, Draco didn’t hold back. He didn’t protest that no one could ever love him, for the cruel, terrible person he was, because it was then that it finally dawned on him that maybe, just maybe, he was worth loving. He was worth happiness. He deserved the purest and most wonderful love in the world.  
It was then that he finally gave in to these thoughts, and the moment that he did, he achieved something he had never thought in a million years was possible. True happiness. True love. Not just with Harry (for he had already loved Harry for much of his life), but with himself. True self-compassion, in knowing that he, Draco Malfoy, deserved to be loved. And knowing that let him finally be able to begin to forgive himself for everything he had done. Both Draco and Harry could practically hear a fantastic rumbling as his ginormous, protective walls crumbled to the ground. But neither of them heard the click of the door unlocking, the room somehow knowing its work was done. Nor did they see Pansy peek in, then squeal with delight and leave to skip down the halls gleefully, smiling a beautiful and radiant smile that was not malicious, not wicked and most certainly not evil… it was a smile that was kind. They couldn’t care less if the earth exploded, leaving billions to perish, now that they were in each other’s arms, and they couldn’t hear anything but their hearts rapidly but joyfully thumping in their chests. Tears entered Draco’s eyes and streamed down his cheeks one final time, and for the first time, on that beautiful, magical Christmas morn, there was someone to wipe them away.  
Harry wanted him tainted, not pure. He wanted him broken, not whole. He wanted him flawed, not perfect.  
He just wanted him. For who he was and no one more.  
He didn’t need him to be a perfect, whole, pure, beautiful human being. Untouched by evil. Worthy of the Chosen One. He didn’t need him to be any of that. He just needed him to be, be who he was, be Draco Malfoy, scarred and shattered and broken and all. For that was who Harry loved. Not some pathetic imitation of his idea of perfection, for even though Draco didn’t yet realize it, he was Harry’s perfection, as completely and totally imperfect as he was. As flawed as he was, to Harry he was flawless.  
Because love, true love, the really good kind of love… isn’t ignoring or shoving aside the flaws and faults that come with the person. Love is learning to accept and love those faults, because they are the person too. They make someone who they are, and if you choose to love someone (well, it’s really not much of choice), you must love them for their whole, complete self, not just the parts you choose to like. You must love them who they are, not who you want them to be, and love their imperfections along with everything else.  
And that, dear reader, on that beautiful, magical, in every way wonderful Christmas morn, and every day after, is exactly what they did. With hearts that loved to no end, and eyes that saw nothing but perfection. For perhaps, within each other’s arms and hearts, they could finally make each other whole. And even if they didn’t, even if they were both damaged beyond repair, so broken by the war and their lives that they could never be fully healed, it didn’t matter. They didn’t care. All the walls had been raised and lowered, all the gifts had been given and received, and all the broken hearts had been mended, for good. Their wildest, craziest, most seemingly impossible dreams had come true; they had each other. Draco was Harry’s, and Harry was Draco’s. After years of wanting without receiving, crying for no reason and loving from afar, they finally had each other.  
And through each other, they finally found happiness.  
Those beautiful, broken boys.

**Author's Note:**

> So... what did you think? Was it good? Bad? Cute? Sad? What was your favourite part? What didn't you like? Please tell me, thank you so much for reading!


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